


Mess is Mine

by alphablues



Series: Alphablues Songfic Series [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Ficlet, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Pack Feels, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2202315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphablues/pseuds/alphablues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles stops eating. It isn't really a problem, until it really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mess is Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Eh, I just got this idea stuck in my head. I'm not sure if it turned out well or not.

_"You can tell me what you see. I will choose what I believe." - **Vance Joy** , Mess is Mine_

 

Stiles stops eating. Well, not completely. He chokes down a few carrot sticks and leaves of lettuce, but he can't  _really_ eat. He throws up every meal for weeks before he finally gives up. He pretends it doesn't happen right after he gets his body back from the Nogitsune. He pretends every skipped meal doesn't makes him feel slightly more in control. He pretends he doesn't still wake up some nights from dreams of blood on his hands.

 

It's not a problem when Stiles is on his own, and he's on his own a lot. Scott has his head shoved so far up Allison's ass he's practically part of her digestive track. Scott wouldn't notice if a plane crashed five feet in front of him. And his dad, well, Stiles has spent so much time lying to him that it's become second nature. It's that easy to hide, because no one else cares.

 

"Hey kiddo, did you eat already?" John asks, walking into the house and removing his gun holster.

 

"Yep, good 'ole ham and swiss. I may have eaten the last of the wheat thins."

 

It's bullshit, every word. He just shook the box of wheat thins into the sink while the disposal ran, but his dad didn't have to know that.

 

"You've got a Reuben in the fridge."

 

John sighs and looks pleased.

 

"Thanks kid." He mumbles, rubbing a hand through Stiles' hair.

 

"No problem, Dad."

 

John eats at the table, looking over case files and trying not to spill Russian dressing and sauerkraut on any of the manila file folders. Stiles sits on the couch and watches reruns of Criminal Minds while he pretends his stomach isn't rumbling from hunger. He knows it'll go away after a while. When Stiles takes a shower that night he doesn't look in the mirror. As soap and water glide down his body, he pretends he can't see his ribs and his hip bones.

 

...

 

It gets harder once the pack gets their shit together. There are meetings, and Stiles can handle that. But then there are  _dinners_. Every damn week they gather around Derek's dining table in mismatched chairs and share a meal. He can't say he's already eaten, because the wolves will hear the lie. But Stiles is nothing if not inventive. He becomes well versed in the art of pushing all of the food on his plate into one pile so it looks like he's eaten something. He also learns that putting a forkful of food near his mouth, then saying something distracting makes people think he's actually eating. It all works. No one notices the shadows beneath his eyes, or the way his cheek bones stick out.

 

When school starts again he has to drop off of the lacrosse team. Someone is definitely going to notice the gaunt look of his body in the locker room, and that's not on Stiles' agenda. Scott is kind of bummed, but he still has Isaac, so he doesn't fuss much. His dad hardly notices the lack of matches. Stiles thinks of joining the chess team to occupy his new free time, but the thought makes him want to puke, even though his stomach is empty.

 

Still, no one notices the way his clothes fall off of his body. Or the sickly pallor his skin has taken. No one notices as he fades into a ghost.

 

And then, well, Derek starts giving him weird looks over pack meals. His eyes stay glued on Stiles, so the teenager forces himself to swallow down some pasta. It's only a few mouthfuls a week, but it makes him sick to his stomach. When he gets home, he nearly brains himself on the toilet seat with the speed at which he leans over it.

 

His dad doesn't hear him heaving in the bathroom.

 

...

 

As the weeks pass, Stiles eats less and less at pack dinners. He can't force the food down anymore. Just looking at Allison's baked chicken makes Stiles want to blow chunks. No one notices. At least, he thinks no one does. But one day he gets home and Derek is lurking in his bedroom. He plays it cool.

 

"Hey sourwolf, what's up?" He greets with feigned nonchalance.

 

"You didn't eat tonight." Derek states.

 

Stiles resists the urge to run. Instead he gulps and wipes his sweaty palms on the rough fabric of his jeans.

 

"I wasn't really feeling tacos." He shrugs. It's technically true.

 

"We could've had something else."

 

Stiles shrugs again.

 

"I didn't want to cause trouble."

 

That's also true.

 

"Come on, I'll cook you something. You must be starving."

 

Derek's words choice seems too deliberate, but if Stiles says anything his cover will be blown. So instead, he follows Derek downstairs into the kitchen.

 

"What do you want?"

 

"Whatever, anything but tacos." He forces a laugh and sits at the table.

 

Derek pulls out eggs and bacon. He starts cooking, and the smell of the frying food makes Stiles' stomach turn. He tries to hold it together. It takes all of his strength to shovel yolky eggs and burnt bacon down his throat, but he has to. Derek is watching him like a hawk. He forces the whole plateful into his protesting stomach and rubs his belly the way he used to. 

 

"Thanks man, that was super good."

 

He wants to shove Derek out the door so he can get rid of all the food in his body, but the wolf insists on washing all the dishes he used. When he finally leaves, Stiles barely has the door closed before he's sprinting up the stairs. He doesn't bother closing the bathroom door, no one is home. He just wants it  _out._

 

With every heave of his stomach he feels better, until-

 

" _What_ the  _fuck_ are you doing Stiles?"

 

Derek is standing in the doorway, eyes glowing red and Stiles just shatters. Everything he's been holding back pours out. Ugly sobs rise from his chest, tears and snot running down his face.

 

"I can't-I can't- _Derek-_ "

 

He's scooped up in a pair of arms, strong and full of care. 

 

"Shh, I've got you.  _I've got you_." 

 

...

 

He gets help after that. He goes to a special clinic a few miles outside of Beacon Hills. It's expensive, but Derek insists on paying for it. When Stiles protests he just says, "Pack takes care of pack." And they do. When Scott finds out he cries. Isaac holds him tightly and whispers "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Over and over again. Erica brings him the brownies he used to love every family day. Boyd brings his mom's sweet potato casserole. His dad cries every time he visits and he hugs him and he promises to work less and care more. Lydia brings roasted chicken, and Stiles knows she didn't cook it, but it's still nice. Jackson brings his attitude.

 

"You're a fucking idiot Stilinski."

 

His words are harsh, but his face is full of worry, and it kind of touches Stiles' heart.

 

Slowly, he gains weight. Slowly, the number on the scale stops bothering him. Derek visits three times a week, even though he's not supposed to. The nurses always let him in with a wink.

 

"Why do you come see me so much?" Stiles asks one day, picking at a loose thread on his comforter.

 

"You must know." Derek says, face slack with shock.

 

Stiles shrugs, "I mean, I know you're the alpha and stuff, but-"

 

Derek shuts him up with a kiss. It's soft and sweet and doesn't change into anything else. But it doesn't need to.

 

"Oh." Stiles says.

 

...

 

Derek tells him things after that.

 

"You're not dark Stiles."

 

"You aren't bad."

 

"You're clean."

 

"You're good."

 

"You  _matter._ "

 

Stiles is suprised with how easily he believes it. 

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is. You can find me on Tumblr at sprayberry-s.


End file.
